


Carry On

by ILiterallyDeceptiCantEven



Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: I'm a Terrible Judge of Triggers, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inform Me If Something Else Needs to Be Tagged, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not of the Sexual Kind Though, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stress, Unethical Experimentation, War Crimes, disturbing behavior, illness mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 13:31:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4139403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ILiterallyDeceptiCantEven/pseuds/ILiterallyDeceptiCantEven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Optimus could remember reading an article in his academy days about war. Not a single war, just war in general, typed out on an old, battered datapad in the archives.  </p><p>But one line on the scratched screen stayed with him: "War comes with great rewards but even greater sorrow, pain, and anguish." </p><p>Optimus is finding himself with one hand full of his responsibilities as Magnus and the other holding onto what little is left of his faith in the Autobots after learning about Cybertron's dark past. After Sentinel gets swept halfway across the galaxy the Autobot rallying cry becomes one of death to all Decepticons, including those tucked away in Trypticon. The Decepticons have developed their own rallying cry after learning of the conditions warframes face behind enemy lines. </p><p>Some things can only be keep secret for so long before lips start to get loose and consequences can only be delayed but never eradicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The (Un)Holy Trinity Now Rather Than Then

“Optimus Magnus” was a name that Sentinel found himself unable to pry from his mouth even when threatened to be court martialed should he continue to use multiple, so-called “informal and disrespectful” names such as “Prime,” “Buddy,” and, his personal favorite, “Aft-head.”

What was even harder for Sentinel to stomach was his position as just a Prime.

Even after being a temporary Magnus, even after holding Cybertron together while Ultra Magnus healed up, even after bringing home Seeker clones and Blitzwing, even when defending his home world from Megatron himself in Omega Supreme, Sentinel was still stuck as Prime. For all his accomplishments, Optimus hauled home a couple Decepticons and got crowned immediately.

Sure, they were Megatron and some of his top officers, but still.

He made his displeasure known, calling Optimus in his office upwards of four times within a single decacycle with inane questions simply to delay what progressive he was making on his paperwork. Better yet were the times when he would personally visit Optimus in his office, breezing past the secretary at the door—a femme by the designation of Tungsten, whom Sentinel would proudly proclaim that his ranking was above her own whenever she tried to stop him from barging into the office—to walk into Optimus office and either engage him in small talk, ask more useless questions, or get into yet another argument over Optimus’ position as Magnus.

Optimus would, of course, hold his own and argue right back before demanding Sentinel leave. Sentinel would, as per usual, refuse to leave and Optimus would remind him of his authority over the Prime. Sentinel would stand a moment longer before huffing and departing.

And the cycle would repeat the very next day. 

* * *

 

Blackarachnia’s got dirt caked onto her knees and wounds that are leisurely leaking pus. Her skin is either so dry its cracking or so scarred it puckers out into the world like a morbid kiss. She’s shaking from the cold despite the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“Primus, you look awful.” Oil Slick appears before her, a needle in one servo and a cube of energon in the other. Before she can protest, he’s got the needle in her arm and the medicine in her bloodstream before shoving the cube into her hand.

“I smell worse.” She smiles a little, revealing dull teeth where there once two rows of canines. Oil Slick chuckles.

“I’ll take your word for it. General Strika wants to see you when you’re done.”

“I told her, I narrowly escaped, Waspinator doesn’t know anything, and no, I still have not killed that ‘damned and disgusting’ organic half of me yet.” Blackarachnia throws her helm back, the energon sliding in, a beautifully smooth sensation after the scraps she survived on while stranded.

“No, no. This is about something else.” Oil Slick took the cube from her. “Follow me.”

Blackarachnia rose, her legs unsure beneath her. She frowned briefly but counted it up to being energon deprived.

They walked through the ship, going further and deeper into the bowels of the old warship. Blackarachnia noticed the lack of other Decepticons and asked about. All she got as an answer was a shrug and “We just got off Chaar. Anycon you see on this ship is part of the team. Otherwise, they’re long-term stowaways.”

By the time they’re reached their destination, Blackarachnia’s vision was fuzzy at the edges and her head began to pound. Strika was sitting straight up in her chair with a datapad in hand, looking too at ease to be sitting so straight. When she saw the two, she sat the datapad down and gestured at a chair. “Come. Sit. We need to talk.”

Blackarachnia sat down, briefly sliding in her seat before snapping back up. Her hand shook as she placed them at her temples, rubbing to ward off the pounding. Despite being five feet away, Oil Slick’s footsteps out of the room sounding like they were echoing off the sides of a canyon. “What are we talking about? We talked earlier.”

Strika hesitated. “Yes, we did. But you see, there’s something else we must talk about. I need you’re involvement in a mission.”

“What mission? What’m I doing in this mission?” The pounding got worse no matter how hard she rubbed. Her vision was beginning to tunnel.

“We will talk about the details later. After your… ah, let’s call it a procedure. For now, just know that we will be cleaning up the messier half of yourself. The organic part to your techno-organic identity.”

“What the Pit are—” Cramps assaulted her abdomen and Blackarachnia choked briefly before vomiting. The spray of pink viscous liquid across the table and colorful splash of it against surrounding chairs did not phase Strika in the least.

“You see, Blackarachnia, your condition has been a bit of a problem for myself and the Decepticon army for a while now. Your need for special accommodations, for additives to your energon, your inability to inhabit certain places—all things we cannot afford. You need to be mobile and versatile. You need to be able to do anything, no matter what it is.”

The cramps got worse, her head and abdomen pounding in time with each other. Her visions blurred to the point where even the contrasting pink and grey became one ombre splotch in her eyes. Hands clawing valleys into her stomach, she lost her balance and fell to the floor. Yet despite the pain, she still found it in herself to spit out, “You glitch! You poisoned me!”

“Don’t think of it as poisoning. Think of it as a cleansing.” The ground shook as Strika walked towards her, stopping right before her and dropping to her knees before the shaking femme. “We remove that pesky organic half and fill in everything else. You’ll be the best you can be. Integrated weaponry and flight capabilities, complete makeover. You’ll be a true Decepticon warrior.”

Blackarachnia heaved up another mouthful of energon and bile before passing out on the cold steel floor. 

* * *

 

Every morning there’s a pile of datapads on his desk and by the end of the day, often times two megacycles after a meal break and two megacycles before the end of the workday, it would have all been read, corrected, signed, and placed in the “out” bin.

Optimus would often send the next megacycle responding to messages or balancing his calendar before finishing his day off at Ultra Magnus’s bedside discussing the events of the day.

“How are those peace treaty meetings going? With the, um, the Fredlig?” Ultra Magnus was sitting up, padding tucked behind his back to keep him upright. He had begun to keep up to date on news and events, reading and commenting on it to Optimus whenever he came down to visit. His inquiries about the state of Cybertron would always come after his proud proclamations about his latest medical achievement. Today, it was walking five steps without a nurse’s aide.

“The Friedlich, sir. They’re going well, all considered. They’ve asked for more funding for their farms, which is understandable. But Sentinel has caused some delays in the peace treaty talks as, before I could tell them that we would most certainly increase their agricultural aid funds by 8%, Sentinel had to ask ‘why not just 6%’?” Optimus sighed. “They’re not angry but are most certainly a little harder to deal with. They’ll only meet with the council when Sentinel’s not around and you know how he hangs out near Alpha Trion’s doors every free moment he gets.”

Ultra Magnus chuckled. “Still trying to get old Alpha to promote him? He should know that that will never work. Alpha Trion told me that he thinks that Sentinel is one of the worst leaders he’s seen in a long time. And he was taking Megazarak and Megatron into consideration.”

There was a lull in the conversation between them.

“You know, I could get Sentinel transferred. Somewhere off planet, somewhere he’d still hold the rank of Prime but somewhere that would make him reconsider his subordinate ways.” Ultra Magnus shifted in bed, hand coming up to his chin in thought. “Yes…there’s a nice little organic planet I’ve heard of with over a million swamps and plenty of rust causing humidity.”

Optimus chuckled, shaking his head. “With all due respect sir, I’d prefer to keep Sentinel here. When he’s not whining at me he’s a great drill sergeant and office worker. He churns out the most specific and the most detailed incident reports than his whole office combined.”

“Well, keep it in mind if he becomes too much.” Ultra Magnus pauses for a moment before asking, “How are the Decepticons doing?”

The question came as a bit of shocker to Optimus and he frowns. “I’m not sure what you mean sir.”

“The Decepticons, the ones we captured. I know a few have gone to the Ministry of Science for research into their weaponry and their abilities, but what of the others? Megatron and Shockwave and Lugnut?”

It was here that Optimus realized he hadn’t thought to keep tabs. Between the mess left behind in Detroit, setting up fifteen Autobot bases on Earth, keeping the Autobot Commonwealth strong, and stopping Sentinel from overthrowing him, Optimus hadn’t had time to think over what had become of the highest leaders in the Decepticon army.

“Well, uh, Megatron is in Trypticon Prison, alongside Shockwave and Lugnut. However, he was put on a different level from his officers, to ensure he won’t escape. Lugnut has gone to the Ministry of Science a few times, mostly to have his POKE checked out, as I know Wheeljack has shown an interest in the weapon.”

“He shows in an interest in anything that blows up,” Ultra Magnus muttered. Optimus choked back a laugh.

“The Seeker clones, Ramjet, Sunstorm, and Blitzwing are all in the Ministry of Science currently. The Seekers are there because they should erratic and self-destructive behavior and are under constant supervision and sedation. Blitzwing is being studied because he is an artificial Triple Changer, the first of his kind.” Optimus paused. “We have yet to hold a trial for the captured Decepticons, sir.”

“Good. Hold the trial off until I can walk and stand and move about again. I’d like to talk to Megatron myself before all of Cybertron tries to assassinate him. But,” Ultra Magnus tapped his chin, “could you possibly keep Blitzwing in the Ministry of Science for as long as possible? And have Lugnut transferred to the Ministry as well. I want as much research pulled from them as we can get. Always good get what we can from them rather than have them rotting away in cells.”

There was a twist in Optimus’s gut at the suggestions but he ignored them. “I’ll, uh, see what I can do. Sir.”

He left after a few more minutes of small talk about the government and taxes. By the time Optimus got home, the twist in his gut had him kneeling before waste bin, waiting to vomit up his dinner. He didn’t even dry heave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this last year, forgot about it, got a ton of comments on it (which I accidentally deleted, but I read them all!), reread this, hated it, and have completely rewritten it. So, ta-da!
> 
> Feed back is welcome, and, as I am myself a bit desensitized to things, don't be afraid to ask for something to be tagged as a trigger.


	2. Ignorance is Bliss, Albeit Temporary

Red Alert believed herself to be a good medic.

She had completed medical school third in her class, went through classes about the medical care for warframes and fliers while tensions rose on Cybertron before the war, and did her best to treat injured Decepticon POWs, even if it meant going behind her commanders back. She had almost been charged with treason four times because of that but never stopped doing it.

She had what many medical officers, including Perceptor, called a “progressively liberal medical method,” which was a polite way of saying that she was willing to ignore factions if meant saving someone’s life. For Autobots, it was a dangerous way of thinking in a time of extreme patriotism.

Regardless of what others thought, Red Alert stuck to her belief that every bot deserved medical care regardless of their association.

Which is how she ended up here.

The Ministry of Science and Red Alert did not get along but they tolerated one another. In the aftermath of Team Athenia’s meeting with Team Chaar, Rodimus got quarantined and the rest of her teammates were given new assignments. All but her, who found herself grounded in Iacon, awaiting assignment from Fort Max. In the time between, with old colleagues discussing retirement, she worked with Ratchet at his office and took a job playing night nurse for the Ministry of Science.

When she initially applied, Perceptor eyed her application up and down before telling her in his eerily monotone voice that she would be working four megacycles every night and would be expected to fulfill all duties assigned to her without complaint or interference with the patients. Any interference with the patients beyond her duties would result in her losing her job and even getting charged with treason depending on what she had done. Red Alert didn’t say it then but did think about the word “patient.” It made this place sound like a hospital. It was not.

“Patient” could only be used here because of the tubes running in and out of the prisoners’ bodies.

For four megacycles a night, Red Alert found herself pushing a cart up and down the halls of the holding cells there, administering medication and inspected wounds and entry points for tubes and looking out for any rust that may be festering under the prisoners’ shackles.

She tried not to think about that last part.

She had come face to face with multiple Decepticons in her time—Primus, she had been swallowed by one less than an orbital cycle ago. She had been shot, stabbed, beaten, and even lost her left arm to Decepticons. Decepticons were warframes, huge and wide, strong and powerful. They were warriors, each one comparable to ten Autobots.

These Decepticons were none of the above. They were pathetic, neurotic. Starved by energon rations smaller than they should be eating, tied down and flooded within foreign drugs, and crammed into tiny claustrophobic places they could only look at her wearily as she prodded about their arms and bodies, slipped their medication into their arms and necks. Rust was uncommon as the rooms were kept dry and their shackles were loose.

She had sixteen prisoners to keep an eye on, twelve in midlevel security and four in high-level security. The twelve in midlevel were no problem—many of them barely had the energy to shout insults at her let alone swing at her. They were cuffed, their hands only gave a foot of space between their wrists. They chain between the cuffs would lock into a bar whenever the door was opened giving Red Alert full control of the prisoner.

For the first two solar cycles on the job, the prisoners would flinch away from her touch. She would only look at them oddly before continuing on with her duties. She didn’t want to think about why warframes would flinch away from grounders.

Her midlevel prisoners came to like her. She even got a smile out of one prisoner once. Her high-security? Not so much.

Four mechs crammed into cells too small for them—so small, Red Alert had found rust in their knee joints. She didn’t understand why high security meant confinement. Alongside that, they were chained in six places: two on the ankles, two on the wrists, one around the torso, and one around the neck. It was the neck she refused to look at.

Their cells were four of five in a lab, circled around a lab table and taking up two of four walls. The other wall was lined with cluttered counters and lockable cabinets and drawers. To get in, she would scan her hand, her eye, and her face. The door beeped and opened and she would wheel her cart in and park it by the lab table. In here, blue lights shone softly from the floor, gently illuminating her path and saving the ministry power.

Red eyes glowed from the cells. The one on the far right cackled.

“Ooh, the night nurse has come again to give me my crazy meds!” The mech began to slowly shift himself about, moving from his aft to his knees. “Tell me, nurse, what are they feeding me this time? Antipsychotics? Or something stronger, like liquid cosmic rust?”

Red Alert ignored him, gathering his needles and her cleaning pads and making her way over to his cell. He slammed his hands against the barrier and for a moment Red Alert wavered, almost stepped back. His face, a shadow with gashes of red for eyes and a mouth, pressed as close to the barrier as his neck chain would allow. “Tell me, nurse,” he asked, his smile expanding, mouth glowing, “do they tell you what you give me? Or do you just blindly follow orders?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned, unlocked his barrier and engaged his stasis lock.

The other prisoners—two seekers and a huge mech who took up what little safe he was given—said nothing while she was there. She did her duties and no more.

She couldn’t get in trouble with the ministry again. Not after Drak-9. Not after her record with them. Not if it meant prisoners getting hurt because she got nosy.

Red Alert left after her shift. She didn’t stick around, just shoved her cart at the guards up front and went home.

* * *

 

Trypticon Prison was a feat of architectural wonder, reaching into the sky as if to welcome flyers whilst clawing out at the ground as if to ward off oncoming grounders. It was once a fortress that held much of the Decepticon stronghold before they had been banished from the planet. Sentinel had found an element of irony there where Optimus only found bad decisions that would likely bite them in the aft later on.

The minicons that ran the prison were watched over by a Prime he had stationed there himself. A young mech by the name of Titus Andrea, he was so fresh out of military school that his salutes looked like he was getting paid for them. His job consisted of monitoring who went in and out of the prison during visiting hours and escorting visitor’s to cells and returning them to the entrance as well as roaming the hallways during all other hours of his shift to ensure no one had snuck in or out. He was—essentially—a security guard. And not of the honorable kind, but rather the underpaid and often underappreciated kind.

Optimus knew it was wrong of him to put such a bright young cadet in such a demeaning position, but he felt it built character, having to deal with Decepticons. He also didn’t know what else to do with the mech.

Titus snapped to attention when he entered, nearly concussing himself with his salute. “Optimus Magnus, sir! Your appearance here is unexpected yet welcomed, sir!” The Prime’s armor practically vibrated with excitement and his lips twitched, holding back a smile.

Optimus heaved a mental sigh before waving for him to stand down. “Calm yourself, lieutenant.” Titus’s hand snapped back to his side so hard Optimus could swear there was a dent there. “Take me to Megatron. I want to talk to him.”

This was where he saw the joy in Titus waver, if only for a moment. “Ah, yes sir. Right this way, sir.” A minicon pulled out of one of the side hallways, taking Titus’s stance at the entrance. Optimus nodded at it and it beeped at him.

Titus led him down a long hallway that contained no doors or windows and was lit from the floor by soft blue lights. Around his ankles, he could hear minicons rolling about below. Some slipped past him and away into the darkness. Others seemed to be following Titus and him to the elevator.

“Here we are, sir. Please scan your hand, eye, and face, sir.” Optimus eyed the elevator. A huge grate covered the inner doors of the elevator, all of it cast in steel and iron. He did as Titus asked and waited while he did the same before the grate and door slowly rolled open. The inside was similar to the outside, a casket of iron and steel with a harsh white light shining down on the two of them and casting eerie shadows on their face. He noticed that the minicons hesitated at the doorway before skittering back into the darkened hallway.

“None of the minicons are coming with us?” Optimus asked as the inner door finally finished rolling shut.

“Yes, sir, they have their own way of getting around floors. I, uh, am not sure how, sir, but they do.” Titus reached over to the wall, scanning his hand again before pressing the button for the lowest floor. “We did move Megatron to the lowest floor, sir, without suspicion from the other Decepticons. Sentinel Prime was a genius for devising this plan, with all due respect, sir.”

Optimus eyed Titus. “It was one of his better ideas. But we must hope that his microphones and speakers don’t go out. The silence could lead to destruction.” True, it was a moment of genius for Sentinel but, like the Trypticon idea, it would backfire badly.

Titus didn’t respond to that. He just tensed up.

The elevator landed with a heavy whoosh of air and the doors began to slowly roll open. Titus led the way again with Optimus close on his heels. He felt minicons sliding past his heels, whirling and beeping at him, their eyes looking up at him from the dimly lit floor.

Where most hallways in Trypticon led to multiple doors that led to different wings of cells of varying security levels, the subterranean level led to one door. They scanned themselves in and their eyes were assaulted by the bright lights above them. This level was identical to the top level but shortened. All that truly mattered down here was what Megatron could see from this cell when the covering was lifted up. Everything else was a façade. The cell in front of Megatron’s cell didn’t even have hooks for chains but as he couldn’t see it’s ceiling, it didn’t matter.

What had Sentinel called it when he heard of the level? Ah right—Megatron’s Personal Pit. Deception for Lord of the Decepticons.

They arrived in front of Megatron’s cell, the cover in front of the barrier barring him from seeing into his hallway. Around the cell were speakers and microphones to share with him the sounds of the level he should be on and pick up on any sounds he made to broadcast them on the level his subordinates believed him to be on. Clever but not the best idea.

Optimus reached for the hand scanning pad before hesitating and glancing at Titus. He watched him, nodding at him. “Is something wrong, sir?”

“Yes, I have matters of high security and secrecy to ask about and it is matters that should stay between myself and the Ministry of Intelligence so I must request that you—”

Titus snapped straight and saluted. “Yes sir, I will wait by the elevator, sir. I apologize, sir.” Despite his words, he did hesitate in turning and walked toward the door slower than he should have. Nonetheless, he left.

He reached out for the pad. Stopped. What would he ask? He likely could have only asked one question. Should he ask about Ultra Magnus’s words? Or perhaps what was so special about Blitzwing and Lugnut? Or his history with Ultra Magnus? He decided on that latter question and pressed his hand to the scanner.

The cover rolled up and Optimus found himself meeting the dazed eyes of Megatron, Lord of the Decepticons, who was slumped against the back of the cell. After Team Stunticon had tried and failed their escape plan, Sentinel and the High Council had badgered him into enforcing a new policy of chaining down all high-security prisoners. Megatron had been latched to the inside of his cell around his neck, waist, and hands. While Perceptor had wanted the six-point restraints he used in the Ministry of Science, Optimus had found the idea of chaining the prisoners’ feet to the floor just a bit too much. He had barely agreed to the restraint around the neck.

But it was not restraints that worried him—it was Megatron’s eyes. They were, along with almost every other Decepticon that Optimus had met before, a bright red when aware and alert. Right now, his eyes were a deep red and he could hear the gentle whirring of them going in and out of focus.

“Megatron.” Optimus nodded at him. Megatron rose from his bench, his head barely touching the ceiling. He began to walk towards Optimus before getting yanked back by his waist chain. He seemed puzzled before noticing it and muttering a quiet, “Oh.”

His eyes lit up a bit more but were not as bright as they should be as he met Optimus gaze and smiled. “Optimus Magnus. Come to gloat? Or to claim me as your war bride?”

That last question almost upset Optimus’s straight posture and he sputtered for a moment. Megatron laughed, a booming sound that shook the walls and sent a tingle up the Autobot’s spine. No doubt the microphones all around him picked up this sound as there were soon quiet questions flooding in from the speakers. Optimus restarted his vocalizer before saying, “No, that’s not what I’m here for.”

Megatron either heard him and didn’t care or didn’t hear him at all as he pressed as close to the glass as he could and whispered, “Did you know that Ultra tried to do that to me?”

This caused Optimus eyes to widen in shock and curiosity as he asked, “Come again?”

Megatron nodded, chuckling to himself, as he said, “Yes, he took me prisoner once. Only once though. Had me in his clutches for three whole megacycles. Told me that if I bonded with him he’d end the whole war, pull all his troops back. I asked him that if he got me, what my Decepticons would get.” His eyes turned from confused merriment to cold hatred as he spat out, “He told me that they’d all get Autobot mates but that Kaon would remain Autobot territory.”

Megatron stumbled backward onto his bench. “Imagine that. Going from being playthings in the war to playthings in the berthroom.” He let out a short sharp bark of laughter. “I’m sure Ultra will be back again to offer me the same deal. This time I can’t refuse it—no Lugnut or Shockwave to break me out of some shoddily built Autobot prison. How cruel that my headquarters became my place of enslavement.” He brought a hand to his eyes and Optimus saw tears slip down his cheeks and onto his chest. Megatron heaved a heavy sigh before looking up again. His eyes were still dull. “You must excuse me and my ramblings, Autobot. The sedative you put me on does that to me.” Wiping away one last tear, Megatron met Optimus’s eyes and asked, “What were you going to ask me?”

Optimus had decided he’d gotten all that he needed about Ultra Magnus from Megatron for now and instead asked, “When did they put you on a sedative?” He paused then added, “I authorized no such thing.”

“My internal chronometer is a bit off but I’d say about five solar cycles after arriving in this prison. At first, it was just a bit but it soon got increased. They’re putting it in my energon.” Megatron squinted at Optimus. “Who else but the Magnus would have the authority to prescribe me sedatives?”

Optimus closed his eyes and began to determine what kind of punishment he could slap down onto Sentinel for going behind his back. “I could name a few bots.”

Megatron only hummed in response. Optimus watched as his eyes went offline and he slumped fully against the back of the cell. Soon his venting was slow and even and he had slipped into recharge. Optimus watched him for a moment, marveling at the sight of the mech who had tried to kill him, tried to eradicate Earth and had been warring with the Autobots for stellar cycles, recharging peacefully. If Optimus ignored the sight of chains, he looked almost domestic.

He simply closed the cover and walked away.

* * *

 

The world after the Battle of Detroit was not the same.

Cybertron had scatted twenty-two bases all around the world, mostly near or around major cities. Atop that, the worldwide Elite Guard base was stationed ten minutes outside of Detroit and could constantly find Elite Guard agents all over the city, patrolling the streets or aiding the police, EMTs, or firefighters. Sari would have loved this sort of inclusion of Autobots. If she knew any of them.

Being a twelve-year-old in a seventeen-year old’s body alongside being techno-organic was hard enough. To top it all off, the Autobots in charge of immigration in Iacon had taken one look at her and sent her home to her father who had forbidden her from going back to Cybertron until she finished her school.

Ah yes. School.

Her sudden publicity after the Battle led CPS to realize that, hey, she was a seventeen-year-old who had never gone to school once in her life and was barely doing her homeschool programs online with only one parent who was rarely ever in the picture. As a result, her father enrolled her in a private school close by and told her that if she passed with flying colors and got accepted into college, he would let her spend her summers on Cybertron. Sounded simple enough, as she was smart and filled out her college apps within a day.

Sari was now two months into school and hating it.

Saint Francis of Assisi’s Secondary School was a campus of three red brick buildings with its own clock tower, football field, track, baseball field, soccer field, underground hockey rink, and indoor tennis field. There were state of the art sports facilities which Sari had learned meant fancy gyms and showers for the jocks. Their labs were all advanced, classrooms were a blend of traditional atmospheres and the newest teaching technology, and the cafeteria served a blend of culinary dishes, fast food, and coffee. On paper, it was a great school, with a passing rate of 99.7% and every graduate going on to college. But in real life, it was hell.

Sari compared it to the portrayal of high schools in the long ago ages of the 1990s except comically exaggerated. Clichés roamed in herds and when Sari didn’t align herself with a group, she got ignored.

She didn’t mind. She’d rather be alone than having to pretend to care when a girl had a breakdown because a guy didn’t text back fast enough. Sari had been in the midst of battle. She didn’t have time to care about the Justin’s and Brad’s of the world.

Her classes—all AP with the exception of one painting class—were easy enough for her and she found herself daydreaming or sketching out her next painting. She really had nothing to do.

She arrived at 7:55 am and left at 3:05 pm every day. She passed through life like a zombie. She couldn’t call Bumblebee or Bulkhead or even Ratchet because all communications to Cybertron were controlled via the Elite Guard and they had blocked her multiple requests to get in contact with her friends. The friends she did have were still twelve and, as she knew, should couldn’t make friends at school.

And then, like some generic teen movie, it all began to change one Thursday.

Her last class before the end of the day was an English class. Lots of reading, writing, and discussion albeit among students who hadn’t actually read the assigned text and ended up reading summaries and analyses offline. Their teacher had long given up on them having original ideas.

Sari had resigned herself to a seat in the back as she idly listened in on the discussion, only adding comments when she was asked by the teacher. As usual, the interpretation from the reading was the one pulled from online. Sari didn’t even have to look up to see her teacher’s weary expression.

It went on for a while, how a story about a woman’s obsession with a bowl meant that she and her husband had a failing sex life until a small voice cut in to ask, “But what if it’s not?”

Different from the booming voices of the guys in that it came from a girl but slightly squeaky unlike the softness of the other girls. It was unique enough to get Sari to raise her head.

The girl was barely four and a half feet tall and had pink hair with strong brown roots pulled back into a sloppy bun. Her feet dangled above the floor and her uniform, while the school issued polo fit, her cardigan sleeves were rolled up to allow her to use her hands properly. Other than her pink hair, she was average looking. If Sari had to guess, she was probably only about eight or nine years old. Obviously a child prodigy.

“What’d’ya mean, ‘if it’s not’?” Sam, a pitcher for the baseball team and beloved by girls around the school, turned around in his chair to look at her. The girl had her head propped up on one palm, looking bored and unamused.

“I mean, what if the story isn’t just about her and her husband’s sex life?” She tapped her pen against her notebook. “There are a million different ways you can interpret a story.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Name one other interpretation.”

“Repressed homosexuality.” Her response shot out of her mouth faster than some of Sam’s own fastballs and left him with the same reaction on his face if it had been a fastball. “The bowl represents her sexuality. She won’t let her husband put his ‘keys’ in the bowl—a phallic symbol. The bowl here is, obviously, a yonic symbol. These symbols combined with her rejection of her husband’s keys, meant to portray heterosexual sex, could lead one to believe that she doesn’t enjoy it or even want it.”

A silence had fallen over the room, only the tapping of the small girl’s pen. The guys looked astonished that they had been challenged and the girls looked stunned but interesting. The teacher was ecstatic, smiling ear from ear.

Sari took this moment to speak up, clearing her throat to get attention. The young girl turned to look at her as well. Sari felt herself flush for a moment before she went on, “Alongside that, she also seems ashamed of the bowl and overprotective of it. She used to be willing to set it out in the open but soon hides it from sight while also being paranoid about it breaking. It’s like she’s ashamed of it yet she had been so proud of it before.”

The silence dragged on for a bit longer before the teacher lightly clapped her hands together, praising them, “Very good interpretation! I’ve never heard that before! And I must say, I love it!”

There were grumbles of dissent from the class before the teacher launched into going over the night’s assigned text and upcoming homework. Sari briefly locked eyes with the other girl before turning to assignments at hand.

When the bell rang and everyone left, Sari rushed to catch up with the girl, running after her and catching up only to find herself dumbstruck. After walking alongside her for a moment, she finally said, “That was a great interpretation.”

The girl glanced up at her only to respond, “Thanks. You’re Sari Sumdac, aren’t you?”

Sari bit her tongue and only nodded. A few people had recognized her, asked what it was like to be around “giant alien robots.” One guy had asked if she had ever seen them naked and if any of them had dicks. Needless to say, she had walked off, rolling her eyes all the way. She did continue and said, “Yeah, I’m Sari, the robot girl from TV. Not much else to say about me.”

“Weren’t you twelve like six months ago?”

This was a question that Sari had never been asked and was hoping no one would have the mind to ask. “Long story. Has to do with the robot thing.” She paused. They were walking down the hallway but away from the exits, the girl likely going to her locker.  Sari watched her for a moment, believing her to be familiar. Like she had met the girl before but she had likely grown, changed somehow. “How did you know I used to be twelve?”

They arrived at a locker, the girl raising an eyebrow at Sari as she twisted the combination lock. “You don’t recognize me do you?” A crooked smile spread on her face as she swung the locker open. “I mean, I was wearing a mask the last couple of times you’ve seen me.”

And then it clicked. “Oh my god, you’re Professor Princess, aren’t you?”

“Actually it’s Doctor Penelope Sutton, Ph.D. But that was me.” She shoved books into the locker and took books out, throwing her bag over her shoulder before facing Sari again and asking, “You know I gotta ask, what an alien robot girl is doing in high school?”

Sari scoffed. “I don’t know, what’s an eight-year-old with a doctorate doing here with me?”

Penelope flushed before shrieking, “I’m ten!”

“That’s not what your height says,” Sari chuckled. Penelope only responded by huffing and pushing past her and into the swarm of what few students remained in the hallway. It was only when Sari was making her way to her own locker that Penelope was right—she was an alien robot girl stuck in high school and, to make it worse, she was friendless.

Sari sighed to herself one last time as she made her way to the exit. Oh well. It could be worse. She wasn’t sure how, but she knew it probably could.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap have I been absent. Apologies to all as life came out of nowhere and has kept me from getting to this alongside having quite a bit of writer's block. But here I am! 
> 
> One thing I should probably say is that, as you noticed from reading this, that I use words like hands and eyes rather than servos and optics. This is, on my part, solely out of laziness and ease of editing. I do not have the time to go through and make sure everything is correct. I should apologize now for presumably misspelling minicons and some other words but I felt that I needed to get my second chapter up before the end of the year. Hopefully I can start updating once a month. If anyone wants to do beat reading for me, I would be more than willing to have someone because I did not read over this before posting it, I just ran it through Grammarly and word check a few times. 
> 
> The story referenced here is Janus by Ann Beattie. It is a rather interesting look into female sexuality as it is portrayed in literature. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, hopefully I can get this story going soon!


	3. A Name Without Trust

Consciousness came and went for Blackarachnia and there was no pattern to when it would arrive and when it would depart. She had thanked Primus Oil Slick had to decency to keep her pumped full of painkillers but soon found there was nothing to feel pain with.

She found herself growing increasingly lucid for longer periods of time now. Her eyes could open and she could see. Her ears still worked and she could hear. The receptors to her body had been cut or possibly just gone but she could still perform small actions like twitching her feet and curling her hands into a fist. Once, when she had become lucid but Oil Slick was absent she had gotten herself to rise up onto her elbows.

She didn’t like what she saw.

Her organic half, all of her muscles and bones, skin and organs, had been stripped from her. Was remained was a metal endoskeleton. Metal legs tightly bound in wires and joints exposed and bulky open to the air. She wanted to scream but found she couldn’t even manage that. All Blackarachnia could do was collapse back onto the metal table and drop into recharge.

While she grew stronger, Oil Slick had mistakenly assumed she had grown weaker. He never bothered to keep an eye on her or check for activity. The few times she had been lucid when he was working on her she kept still and unresponsive. He had scrubbed and wiped her down, added new wires to her body, and she had even heard typing above her head. She assumed he was rewriting her code. Although the changes in her code were undetectable to her, she could few what they were creating. Her center of balance shifted upwards, her shoulders broadened, and she could feel her hips slowly get smaller.

It was invasive and cruel but she could not find the ability to be disgusted. She wondered if perhaps Oil Slick had ripped that out or if she had lost it long ago.

Despite being alone and slowly regaining her strength, she never thought to attack Oil Slick. No, he was second on her list of mechs to hurt. He was a secondary concern.

Strika would be the one to receive the first blow from Blackarachnia’s new body. And she swore she would be standing over that glitch when she released her last breath and she would be the one to extinguish her spark.

As if she could be lured in solely by thinking of her, the door sliding open and footfalls signaling the entrance of two ‘cons. Oli Slick was talking, his conversation coming to her in bits and pieces. “—no response but I take that as a good thing considering what a glitch she is when she’s awake. Her spark is still beating, her vents are still cycling, and the code is starting to kick into effect. Like I said, once we submerge her into the tank she will grow her own wiring and protoform and organs and everything else.”

“Your explanation is very long and detailed but what I asked is how long until she is ready for her mission?” Ah, there she was. Strika in all her glory and power. Blackarachnia didn’t dare look at her for fear of alerting Oil Slick of her sentience but she could that she stood at the foot of her medical table.

Oil Slick came around beside Blackarachnia then, grabbing a scalpel from one of the tables and prodding at the wires he had bound around her right upper arm before setting it down by her hand.

She could have smiled if she had anything to smile with. Big mistake on their behalves.

“Not sure. I’d say at least one more deca-cycle. The immersion process takes no more than three or five solar cycles once I’m done here, which should only take two solar cycles at most to finish and go over her coding and rewire her a bit more. It’s her eyes I’m worried about—they’re always lit up but she doesn’t respond, doesn’t focus. I may have to replace them, which would take another solar cycle. After that, it’s just a matter of getting her armor together and briefing her. Assuming she comes out of this willing to do the mission.”

Blackarachnia wrapped her hand around the scalpel and waited.

Strika snorted. “Of course she will. Trust me, I know her. She loves revenge, seeks it whenever she can. She will adore her mission on Cybertron. After all, she is going after that fool Autobot who dared to—”

Not listening to their conversation, Blackarachnia took this moment to strike, launching herself upwards and the scalpel outwards. She watched as it planted itself between Strika’s eyes before Blackarachnia fell back again against the table.

She cackled and was pleasantly surprised to find her voice. “You fragging glitch. Hope that hurts.”

Her optics began to flicker but she stayed awake long enough to watch as Strika walked to her side, looking down on Blackarachnia. “Me? A glitch? You’re no more than a pile of wires and metal.” She reached up, grabbing the scalpel in her forehead and pulled it out. Sparks shot from the wound and a line of energon began to slip down her face. “Next time, aim a little to the left. I’ve never liked this optic much anyway.”

She watched the energon drop down and onto her optic, blurring her vision as Strika turned away to be met by Oil Slick’s mutter of “I didn’t think she had that in her.”

“ _Never_ underestimate a femme, Oil Slick. You should know this after being around me.”

The two left and Blackarachnia was left in silence once more.

* * *

If it had not been for his six meetings that day and having to triple check the planned budget for that month, Optimus would have called Sentinel into his office sooner than the evening to reprimand him for the sedatives in Trypticon. But, as life was the way it was, it was only when Tungsten bid him farewell for the night that he was able to comm the Prime.

 _Sentinel Prime. My office. Now._ Optimus shuffled the contents of his desk around. Gazing at the smooth blue steel top, it dawned on him how he did not have any personal items in his office. He had never thought to personalize his workplace, but he figured it could never hurt him to get some holopics of himself and his team. He’d love one of Earth. The sunsets there were unlike any he had seen elsewhere. Not that he had been many places.

_Ah, apologizes, Magnus, but I’m busy visiting a friend at the moment. Could you wait a megacycle or two?_

Sentinel’s reply jerked him from his thoughts. Scanning the message, Optimus pounded his fists on his desk before he shot up out of his chair and marched out of his office. _Your location. Now. Before I set the Elite Guard on you for insolence._

It was a cycle late but Sentinel’s location in relation to his own popped up on Optimus’s HUD. He recognized it and quietly cursed to himself before heading to it.

* * *

Working alongside Ratchet was…an experience. Any old bot could tell you that.

He was gruff, had no bedside manner, and would resort to yelling whenever his patients talk back. His medical methods were archaic yet effective and he used enough sanitizer when wiping down instruments and equipment to kill any organic being. Being both stubborn and loud, being a general practitioner in Iacon was not the recommended profession for him.

Yet stuck on Cybertron with no future assignments coming up while waiting for his application to be a medical officer for one of the many Elite Guard stations on Earth to get accepted or rejected, there was nothing to do but be a doctor. And being able to work alone in his own office with his own personally selected staff was far better than having to work in a hospital with whiny patients and mutinous nurses.

The bots that came to him were civilians worried over aches in their legs or strange lumps on their protoform. They were hygienic and drank low octane energon and took their supplements and talked with him about their lives. This femme got a promotion, this mech is finishing school, this youngling is having friend troubles. Their lives were—by Ratchet’s standards—peacefully yet boring. And he slowly felt his life becoming the same.

The only two bots who saved his life from becoming monotonous were Red Alert and Arcee.

Red Alert had joined him because of what she called “a sense of duty” and so that she could pay for her apartment and living expenses until her next assignment. She aided him in referrals for specialists and surgeons for the patients and kept him on top of what medications were being developed and prescribed. Her bedside manner was worse than his but she could fake a smile when she had to. Red Alert was also great because he could vent his frustrations about Cybertron and the war to her and she could vent her own and keep her mouth shut tighter than an airlock.

Arcee helped in keeping the office organized and paperwork filled out because she too was stuck between assignments as she had said “the government is trying to realign itself after Sentinel’s brief but borderline tyrannical reign of the planet and people.” Ratchet nodded along to this and never asked why she didn’t just become a teacher at one of the private schools in the area. In his opinion, she was overqualified. But he knew she wanted to get back into information retrieval and spying again. She would talk constantly of the importance of firewalls both in their computing system and in their own systems.

But the two bots who kept Ratchet’s life from being peaceful were Bumblebee and Bulkhead. He didn’t even want to think about those two. To sum it up, Bumblebee had taken up illegal drag racing while waiting for his own application for placement on Earth to process and Bulkhead was teaching basic space bridge engineering to a disrespectful class of Minors and not getting paid enough for it.

Altogether, Ratchet found his life to be rather nice. Even if he did keep cursing bureaucracy for its agonizingly slow pace. Sometimes he thought he was being pushed in retirement, whether he wanted it or not.

* * *

 

The nurses knew to not ask questions whenever Optimus came rushing down the hospital hallway regardless of his expression. His scowl just made them move out of the way faster.

He found Sentinel in Ultra Magnus’s room, sitting in a chair by his bed and talking to the mech. Ultra Magnus simply hummed and nodded in response as he tapped away on a datapad. Optimus watched the two from the window in the room’s door before taking a deep breath and stepping inside.

He bit his tongue as Sentinel gave him a cheerful, “Optimus, old buddy! How are you?”

Optimus kept his mouth shut but Ultra Magnus, without looking up from his datapad, responded, “Sentinel Prime, I advise you to call Optimus Magnus by his rightful title.”

Sentinel winced and grimaced as he replied, “Apologies, Ultra Magnus. Optimus Magnus, how are you?”

The bot had to keep a smile off his face as he coolly answered, “Sentinel Prime. I called you to my office for questioning a quarter of a megacycle ago. You replied that you were visiting someone and could not come at that time despite my call being a direct order from a superior. I have decided that, based on your past actions of insolence and borderline mutinous behavior, you will instead answer all of my questions here. Your answer will be truthful to the best of your abilities and, should I discover any of them to be lies, I will have you demoted to the rank of Minor. Understood?”

Optimus’s cheeks were glowing as Ultra Magnus looked up from his datapad and smiled at him. His words were harsh and, had he not been furious over Sentinel’s constant questioning and undermining, he would have been embarrassed at how much of a dictator he sounded at that moment.

With two sets of eyes on him at that moment, Sentinel wavered, opening and shutting his mouth. He swallowed before replying, “Understood, sir.”

“Good.” Optimus nodded at him before fully entering the room, allowing the door to slide shut behind him. The small audience of three nurses and one doctor that had stopped to hear the exchange and cultivate some drama snapped back into action and hurried on down the hallway when the door shut.

Settling into a chair at the foot of Ultra Magnus’s berth, Optimus paused as he gathered his thoughts. How to go about this? Head first, ask about the sedatives? Slowly ease into it with questions of Trypticon? Perhaps ask some nonsense questions about his job or duties before bringing up Megatron?

Sentinel shifted in his chair, making it squeak. He was flushed, nervous. His former friend and unappreciative Magnus was about to humiliate him in front of the only good mech left in the Autobot government. For him, this was the stuff of nightmares.

“When was the last time you were in Trypticon Prison?” Optimus watched Sentinel’s face. He could tell when Sentinel lied—his right eye would blink before he answered. He had been doing it since boot camp.

Sentinel was telling the truth as he responded, “About a solar cycle ago.”

“Did you visit any Decepticons while there?”

Sentinel’s hesitated. “Define visit.” Then, after a beat, “Sir.”

Optimus paused. He could reprimand Sentinel for not answering the question immediately but nodded. “Visiting here indicates that you sought out a prisoner to observe them within their cell. Now answer the question.”

Sentinel grimaced. “I did visit Decepticons while there, sir.” Looking at Optimus’s face, he preemptively answered, “Only two, sir. Shockwave and Megatron. Sir.”

Optimus raised a brow. “Why were you visiting those two specifically?”

Yet again, he hesitated. “I was discussing getting intelligence information from Shockwave in exchange for better quality energon rather than low grade, sir. And I was just checking on Megatron to ensure he hadn’t detected anything in his special cell, sir.”

The Magnus decided he would deal with that intelligence-energon exchange later. “Before your visit did you change anything about Megatron or his cell? Increase of security? Adding sedatives to his energon? Changing the metal quality of his chains?”

Sentinel shock his head. “No, sir. Just ensured he believed he was surrounded by his troops. He was in recharge at the time so I could not question him but his guards assured me he didn’t believe anything different about his settings. Sir.”

Optimus felt a wave of anger rush through his body suddenly and he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Are you telling me you did not put sedatives into his energon?” His anger only increased when Sentinel frowned, looking lost and confused.

“No, sir. Why would I?”

“Don’t fragging lie to me, Sentinel,” Optimus snapped. He saw the reaction his anger had instantly as Sentinel’s mouth dropped open and Ultra’s eyebrows shot up. “You and I both know that you are the only one other than myself who has the authorization to make changes to Megatron in Trypticon. Now tell me when you ordered to have him drugged or I’ll demote to Minor right here.”

A silence fell over them. Optimus was staring intensely at Sentinel who could only shake in his chair, eyes cast down at his feet.

Ultra Magnus coughed. Optimus snapped his head around, breaking his gaze. He could feel that his face was almost glowing from the flush on his cheeks. He felt sick again like he wanted to vomit. Instead he just held his hands in tight fists at his side. “Sir?”

“I forgot to send a message to you, Optimus Magnus. I was the one who ordered that Megatron have sedatives added to his rations.”

Optimus felt numb. He simply started at Ultra. His tongue flicked out and wet his lips before he said, “Sentinel Prime. You are dismissed.”

He didn’t argue with Optimus. Sentinel simply rose to his shaking legs and stumbled out of the room without looking back. When the door hissed shut behind him, Optimus asked, “Why?”

Ultra shrugged. “Why not?”

Optimus blinked. “Sir, with all due respect, I will have to go against your order.”

“No you won’t,” Ultra scoffed, “Optimus, this is Megatron we’re discussing here. His army killed thousands of us, he killed you once and almost killed you again in Detroit. He cost you a member of your team. Remember? You told me all about your time on Earth. You yourself said that Megatron was the most evil and powerful enemy you have ever faced. And you expect him to just sit in his cell, guarded, yes, but uninhibited? Awake? Aware?”

Optimus stayed silent.

“Believe me Optimus, I have tried to talk reason with him. I have written treaties and I have drawn blueprints for colonies for his soldiers. I have offered energon and credits and all he wants his power. Once, yes, the Decepticons just wanted a home in Kaon. But now? Now they’re all bloodthirsty, greedy warframes fighting for a dishonorable cause.”

Optimus took a shaky breath. “I saw Megatron. He could barely keep his eyes open. He was slouched against the back wall of his cell incoherent and drooling. He wasn’t a threat.”

“Precisely!” Ultra grinned at Optimus. “Surely you see, if we keep him drugged he will be no threat until the trials.”

Ignoring him, Optimus continued, “He told me about you proposing a plan to him. You told him if he bonded to you, you would end the war. You would also enslave the rest of the Decepticon army.”

A hint of anger flashed across Ultra’s face. “I did no such thing. I proposed a plan to tag and track all civilian Decepticon soldiers after the war. With Megatron being the leader of the army, I told him I would keep a closer watch on him than the rest of the former soldiers.”

“Did you intend to track these civilians by having them be slaves to the Autobot people?”

“That is enough!” Ultra was now visibly angry, snarling and sitting up straighter in his bed. “You may be acting Magnus but I remain in control of the country, army, and government. I would have expected you to be smarter than this. You of all bots should know not to trust a Decepticon. Deception is in their name.”

“Perhaps.” Optimus sighed and relaxed into his chair. “Perhaps what Megatron said were just a side effect of the sedatives and are just mere delusions cooked up by the drugs in his energon. But, as I would hope you know, the longer that a bot uses a drug, the more severe the side effects. Perhaps in this instance these sedatives Megatron is on could begin to blur the line between his delusions and his reality. Perhaps he could even believe that you wanting to claim him as a spoil of the war was not a delusion but rather a reality that truly happened. And, perhaps, he could ramble this false memory off to one of the guards or to a visiting reporter or even into the microphone during his trial.” The Magnus only shrugged and withheld a smile as he relaxed into his chair. “But, perhaps I am just overthinking things.”

Ultra’s face was unreadable but the tension in his shoulders revealed how angry he was. Optimus had found a way to make Ultra bend to his will and Ultra never bent to any bot.

Optimus rose to his feet. “I will go ahead and repeal your order. If you would like reassurance, I will have his security increased.”

Nothing else was said as Optimus left. The last sound the Magnus heard was the door sliding shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I am a terrible person. 
> 
> So I forgot to update at all last month because my life is really busy right now and I've only had a few hours on the weekends to work on this story. But! The good news is I will have time off in March so I will be able to work on this a lo more. I am hoping to write about three more chapters so I can begin to post them one by one on a regular basis and work ahead of what I am posting. Until then, updates will be very irregular. 
> 
> Another kind of world building chapter here, I am trying to get everything established before I go into the conflict so the plot probably won't pick up for another two or so chapters. Hopefully I am not already creating plot holes or contradicting myself. 
> 
> Hope you liked this chapter! As always, leave comments below if you have questions, concerns, et cetera, all that good stuff.

**Author's Note:**

> I started this last year, forgot about it, got a ton of comments on it (which I accidentally deleted, but I read them all!), reread this, hated it, and have completely rewritten it. So, ta-da!
> 
> Feed back is welcome, and, as I am myself a bit desensitized to things, don't be afraid to ask for something to be tagged as a trigger.


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